The Best Day Ever

I cried only a little as we said goodbye. I planted one more kiss on his kissing hand and put it to his cheek.

Mommy loves you. Mommy loves you.

I had my sunglasses on, so he didn't know I teared up. Girl was distraught.

I don't want Boy to go!

And Little Sister, for good measure

I nervously shifted my weight from foot to foot as we waited outside his classroom door (which conveniently lets out into the playground). School has burned us before. He burst out, yelling in his little kid speech.

It was the best day ever! This is the best school ever! I want to come every day until I die!

Point of View

Amber Dusick, the force behind the always brilliant PARENTING Illustrated with Crappy Pictures, challenged her readers to have their kids interview them, because kids are hilariously wackadoo and have no idea what's going on.

Here are my results:

Q: What is my favorite food?
Boy: Everything
Girl: Ice cream

Okay, maybe they know exactly what's going on.

Q: What do I do for fun?
Boy: Reading
Girl: Ice cream

Girl wins.

Q: What's my favorite TV show?
Boy: Grown up TVs [sic]
Girl: Diego

Boy wins.

Q: What do I drink?
Boy: Wine
Girl: Water

Both of these are accurate. Had they added "coffee," they would have captured 99% of my fluid intake.

Q: What do I do with my friends?
Boy: Play
Girl: [A blank stare indicating, "You have friends?"]

Q: What do I wear?
Boy: (rolls eyes) A dress, silly!
Girl: Clothes

Thank you, Girl.

Q: Who is my best friend?
Boy: Trainer
Girl: Trainer!

Okay, I love Trainer, but I like to think my best friend is someone I have known for more than three months. He is the only adult I regularly see, though, so I can see why they might come to that conclusion.

Q: What do I do after you go to bed at night?
Boy: Clean
Girl: Clean
Boy: We're both right!

"Fall asleep on the couch" would have been the most accurate answer, but I'll accept clean. Not because that is what I am doing, but because that's what I tell them I have to do after they go to bed. At least they're listening.

UT: A Progress Report

This is not our first shot an unaccompanied tour. Last time Husband was in Iraq, Boy and I in India. That set-up had its own challenges, not least of which that was after, er, R&R number two, I was pregnant, working full time, parenting a toddler solo and, oh yeah, in India.

This UT is completely different, and more akin to those faced by most Foreign Service families. One spouse is employed in a warzone, the other is managing the rest of life divorced from OpenNet and any other resources that keep you connected to the Department. As an employee, I've watched my bidding season come and go, and unless someone can churn up a FS position at the closest passport agency (which I'd happily take), I'll likely watch the next come and go as well. We have no idea what resources Boy will need in school next year, so we are in no position to say whether we can go overseas again or whether we can both work full-time in Washington. There are a lot of question marks still, a theme of recent times.

So, three months in, with the first R&R halfway over, where are we? I am still on LWOP, Husband is still assigned to Afghanistan. His professional life is in flux, due to the crossroads of drawdown and tragedy, and therefore has some unanticipated stressors. I miss my work and colleagues. I miss seeing adults. I don't miss the panicked rush to find childcare or the always marriage-enhancing game of Who Is More Important  at Work Today? when the kids are suddenly sick. I don't miss the chaos of getting two kids to separate schools for their ten hour days, then taking separate cars to pick them up so we can get both of them in the narrow window between the end of the work day and the end of their school hours. I don't miss taking phone calls from Washington while trying to dress a screaming, exhausted toddler for bedtime. I don't miss the guilt when we explain that no, both of us can't be at a 6:00 a.m. event because someone has to feed our children, dress them, and get them to school.

On the flip side, at home I'm on all the time. No adult comes to rescue me (except for some awesome aunts*). No one takes duty calls. Boy wakes up by 5:30 (before 5:00 for the past week), and because Girl sleeps later and naps, she doesn't go down until 7:30 or even 8:00 some nights. I put in 14 hour days of full-on parenting more often than not, and follow them up with dishes and laundry. The extent of my adult interaction is some local family members (oh thank Jeebus*) and the great people at the gym. Coincidentally, I'm at the gym A LOT. Well, a lot for me. They have a daycare there and I lose weight. Everyone wins.

I've mastered ___________ to the extent it will ever be mastered. [Choices: Grocery shopping with two kids; Cleaning the house with two kids; Mowing the lawn with two kids; All of the above.]

I quickly learned that the only way to slow the inevitable losing of my mind was to insist that the children help with everything they can. Boy helps with laundry. Girl helps unload the dishwasher. Both dust. Boy cleans up his Legos every night. Girl helps put away toys in the playroom. Boy buckles himself into his carseat. They can both feed the pets. Boy lets the dog in and out. These are little things, but they make me feel like it is slightly less all on me.

I fill out paperwork and add Boy to waitlist after waitlist. Socialization groups, behavioral therapy, IEPs. We're waiting.

Denver was the right choice for us, and a blog post is evolving in my mind reviewing Denver for families. That said, this is the first time I've lived in America, but not in DC or New York, so my friends seem so close and far at the same time. Luckily I jet to my college reunion in a few days. Thanks to Husband for holding down the fort. I want to see my people.

Oh, and I pierced my nose. Sorry, Dad! It won't stay in forever, just for LWOP. Promise.

*When we made the decision not to go to Washington, we flirted with the idea of Portland or Austin. Thankfully flirting was all it was, because without the family that's here I would have been up a sad, frustrating creek. And all our stuff would still be in boxes.

40-Love

I sat in Girl's bed tonight, putting on her PJs, when I was caught suddenly and viscerally by the extreme frustration I feel for such large chunks of the day. I slumped, eyes misty, right hand forming a brim over my brow line to shield my face while I composed myself. Girl noticed right away. She place her hand--her two-year-old hand!--on my shoulder, rubbed it a little and asked with noticeable concern, "What's wrong, Mommy?" Her compassion is impressive, and I was too caught of guard to answer anything but truthfully. "I feel like a bad mommy," I said, probably unfairly to her. This isn't her row to hoe.

She asked me if I was angry. I said I was, sometimes, but mostly I was really really frustrated. She said, "With Boy?"

Holy smokes. Is this just who she is, or has living with me done this to her?

Our day wasn't so bad, taken as a whole. Boy started it at 5:15, but was chipper about it, until about 8:00 when I was trying to bundle them out the door so I could make it to the gym in time to humiliate myself in Zumba. Then he was too tired to move, too tired to be good at the gym, too tired to put on his shoes. I muttered through clenched teeth my usual schtick about how unfair that was and that he didn't get to take the rest of us hostage. I added that it was ridiculous to insist on waking up so early and then play the victim. There was lots of clenched-teeth muttering. I trust he ignored most of it, as he is wont to do.

He actually did well at the gym, earning 15 minutes of iPad time for the three positive checks on his behavior chart. We made it through lunch and nap (yes! a rare and pleasant occurrence). He played outside nicely with Girl while I mowed the lawn (super quiet, eco-friendly reel mower FTW). The two boys from across the street came over, and stayed with us while their dad got some yard work done. They were fine, my kids were fine, but I found that my ability to stay positive and energetic through the whole impromptu playdate waned quickly. When they went home and we started to get ready for our traditional Friday evening bike ride for burgers, it fell apart. I fell apart. Boy gleefully and repeatedly ran out of the house (once while I was in the shower, it turns out). Boy gleefully refused to let his sister in his room to retrieve her shoes. There were some fisticuffs on the way there (I wish bike trailers had a wall between the two seats). There were significant fisticuffs on the way back (Girl's face was red from blows, but I must note she was not entirely innocent in the throwdown and in fact is much more vicious than her brother when it comes to it).

What put me over the edge, of all things, was Boy continuing to shout to the boys across the street that they were poop, as I repeatedly told him to stop calling people that. It was an entirely unimportant fight to pick at that time, but it was also an entirely straightforward instruction to follow. It was nothing short of defiant, just as running out of the house had been, just as holding his door shut as I stood 6 inches away telling him to open it was. It was a Screw you, Mom. It sucked. I sucked.

When asked to describe Boy's problems, I sometimes struggle to find a good example. In the end it's not often an isolated outburst. It's wiping toothpaste on the wall and running out of the house. It's turning on the TV immediately after I said no more cartoons or bolting off in a store. When he was in school it was chucking trains across the room compulsively, not so much acknowledging the adult next to him until she picked up him, and then he would turn into a writhing screaming mess. It's a steady stream of defiance. Defiance almost as a knee-jerk reaction. Defiance for no obvious reason.

It's an endless power struggle and it is exhausting.

She's Here Too

Boy seems to be getting all the attention in this space, no? That could extend to other spaces as well, although Boy would probably point out that he gets all the negative attention. He wouldn't be wrong on our worst days. The Service gets almost no attention at all. I don't know what to say. I'm not used to thinking about the Department from the outside. Husband missed being in the wrong place and the very wrong time a month ago, but the officer in me reminds myself that we never know when the wrong place and the wrong time were a misplaced set of keys, a search for a purse, a last minute phone call away from striking us. Here in Denver. There in Kandahar. Maybe I'm a fatalist, but the other option is to obsess over all the things that could be happening to him at this very moment, and that doesn't seem like a wise choice either.

Girl, though, is here and well and is blooming in that way that nearly-two-and-a-half year old children do. Everyday she's more the child, less the baby. I don't know precisely when it happened, but she became the Great Communicator, mimicking everyone (for better or worse) and verbalizing her needs and wants (trust me: for better or worse). We are starting potty training, though we are still on that awesome stage where she tells me she needs the potty the second pee starts puddling on the floor. Nailed it! Today she made it to the bathroom three times, so we are making progress. In the meantime, she's nothing short of hilarious.

She's mastered the preteen Awww. The one that follows your announcement that no, she cannot play outside because it's bath time or no she cannot have a cookie. Awww.

She calls me by my first name.

She's mastered the preteen histrionics. I no want to take a nap. I no take a nap ever. I no do it. Not ever. (Followed almost immediately by a three hour nap.)

Our bedtime routine goes likes this:
Lights out.
Girl: Cuddle me! For one minute!
Me: Okay, but then I have to go clean.  [often not true]
(a couple of minutes later)
Me: Okay, Girl, I have to clean now [still not true]. I love you.
Girl: I love you too. I see you in the mornin'!
Me: Sweet dreams. 
Girl: Sweet dreams!
Me: Thank you, Girl.
Girl: Oh, you're welcome!

She's made a little friend across the street. Her friend speaks only Spanish; Girl only English, save for the occasional Mis on? or kampsun. They get along great, seeking refuge from the stressors of older brothers.

Only a month or two after calling every color blue, she's mastered the rainbow, showing her grandparents via Skype Candyland cards as they request a hue. Green pink blue red orange, they say. Okay, I try to, she says. Nails it. This time for real.

Girl really isn't ignored. She gets much more attention than she did when I was working. If we have to spend 15 hours a week focusing on Boy's, er, challenges, then we do that even if we only have 20 waking hours with Girl. But now I have all the time in the world. Not all the patience, not all the energy, and not all the confidence, but all the time. And I don't worry anyway, because I know when she's feeling a bit left out, she'll burst in the bathroom and when I ask for privacy, she'll shake her head.

No, I just want to watch.

Kids. If they weren't cute, they'd be total creepers.

Boy makes bubbles. Girl catches bubbles.

Redux

Whoops. Disregard previous post.

I've been at this motherhood gig almost 5 years. You'd think I'd know better than to note publicly when things are going well, but alas. I don't. I never have.

I don't know if it's the stress of the arrival of our HHE, or a general loathing of me, or a genuine developmental issue, but it's been a rough few days for Boy and me. My Like-A-Boss-Ness has devolved into tantrums, writing/drawing/smearing inkpads on the wall, and other infractions that would so embarrass Teenage Boy that I won't mention them in a public forum. Girl, for her part, is generally well-behaved but still easily influenced by her big brother, whom she naturally worships, so when we went to Target and both of them took off in opposite directions for a game of Hide and Seek (only I wasn't playing), I thought I was damn near losing my mind.

Today my aunt, uncle, and teenage cousin came over to help with the last of the heavy schlepping. While Uncle R assembled a tool cabinet, I moved empty boxes from Garage 1 to Garage 2 (yes, 1890 sq ft of house and two entire garages...makes total sense). Girl wanted to help, so I asked her to drag a giant, fairly flat box from the garage at the side of the house to the garage at the back of our long yard. I didn't expect she'd make it more than a foot before running off to play T-ball with Boy. I was shocked when I came back in the yard to find her masterfully walking up the steps to Garage 2 backwards, hauling this large cardboard box. She continued on that way, holding one end of more cumbersome boxes while I held the other. I may have done most of the lifting, but certainly not all of it. She wouldn't finish until all the boxes had been moved, and even then, she requested "Moh boskes!"

I found myself caught between lavishly praising Girl and asking Boy to stop swinging the baseball bat at us, or to stop pouring water on the bathroom floor, or to stop sitting on the cat. I was cuddles and compliments with one, pure scolding with the other. I wouldn't want to be scolded all day, and I saw Boy descending deeper into a defiance I'm sure I too would embrace in his situation. I don't write on walls or swing a cat by his head, so that's one difference, but in a four-year-old's perspective I'm sure Mommy the Meanie looms larger than his own transgressions.

He's told me, several times, that I am a mean mommy, and I need to work on being frustrated.

I feel like a mean mommy. I want each moment to be a fresh start, but I turn around to find him engaged in an example of the World's Worst Judgment. I recently outlawed television, except for in the 5 a.m.to 7 a.m. hours (because come on), in hopes that that would force more creative and physical play and, in turn, a more exhausted and contented Boy. We'll see if it works. In the meantime, I find myself crawling into Boy's loft bed, smushed tailbone and all, to whisper love and forgiveness and regret in his sweet little ear. He nods quietly, his eyes too heavy to keep open, absorbing the flaws and missteps of his mother. In the end, I can only hope he remembers me not simply as Mommy the Meanie, but as Mommy the Human.

Like a Boss

Wow. Three weeks, no blogging. This isn't good, but our brand of groundhog day is unlikely to be particularly thrilling reading material, so maybe it's best. If you don't have anything interesting to say, don't say anything at all.*

This post is full of Foreign Service Top Tips. I bet you are super excited.

We've been settling in and we were doing alright--our behavior management plan is making life so much better for Boy and me--until a week ago. We had already received our license-plate-free cars and on Wednesday last we were eagerly anticipating our HHE, scheduled to arrive at our doorstep between 8:00 and 10:00 a.m. I received a call from the driver, saying they had another delivery and wouldn't be at our house until noon or so. I asked if there would be sufficient time for a full unpack and in response received the typical, "Oh? You wanted a full unpack?"

NOTE FOR FS NEWBIES: When in America, insist on your full unpack. The companies receive a lot of taxpayer dollars to do it for you, and will often try to wiggle out of it.

So I decide to continue tidying to prepare for the avalanche, hurricane, other weather-disaster-related metaphor of stuff that was about to rain down on us (see what I did there?).  And I promptly fell down the stairs and destroyed my tailbone. I took one car for emissions testing and the garage door wouldn't close and Boy had a huge meltdown at the testing station and my butt really hurt and at one point I might have sat in the driver's seat, slammed my hands repeatedly against the steering wheel and screamed, "I hate my life!" Might have.

Our stuff arrived at....drumroll please...at 4:30 p.m. and was unpacked the next day. Once it was unpacked, it was clear that our 1890 sq. ft. house was not equipped to handle all our crap. I despaired for another day.

The village descended. My stepmom flew in from Washington and her sister and brother-in-law who live just a mile from my house became Team Awesome, sorting and tossing and organizing. There was even a margarita in there. I had to choose between Percocet and the margarita, and I chose the latter. More satisfying. In order to make my life easier, I ordered a storage container from 1-800-Packrat, which is now sitting in my driveway and holding all of the stuff that will go on Craigslist or in a yard sale. Super cheap, totally worth it. Consider this a Foreign Service Downsizing HHE Processing Top Tip.

Monday was the Like a Boss day. Emissions testing, VIN verification, registration of two cars? Driver's license? Nailed it. Taxes? Done. Paid. (If you have household staff, like we did for the first 6 months of 2012, you pay a lot come April 15.) Rental car? Returned. IN THE SNOW. LIKE A BOSS. Computer desk? Assembled.

Only Foreign Service Officers and their families might appreciate the atrociousness of international relocation, but its awfulness cannot be overstated.

Tuesday was also successful, though not as much in the conquering of Bureaucratic Forces Designed to Make Citizens Cry. I made it to the gym and did a good lower body/upper body workout. (No sitting though, so in order do bench presses from the balance ball, I had to flop somewhat fishlike on it. Trainer was amused.) Then I showered (! I know!) and took Girl to an affordable, well-reviewed preschool to secure the remaining spot for September enrollment. It's only for three half-days a week, and she pouted the whole way home because she wanted to go to preschool right then (there were bunnies, so can't blame her), but it's a win. It's two blocks from Boy's future school, which we will tour this morning if I can successfully cover up the fact that he's been up coughing all night long.

I'll cover the impossibility of securing an appointment with a behavioral psychologist in our network (at least a three month wait unless I go to the pediatric psych ER and get him admitted), the near miss for our family in Kandahar, Boston, and all things glum some other time. For now, our life is mundane, but each task conquered is a task conquered, so I'll take it.

Oh, also got a haircut for the first time in six months and a dye job to deal with this gray hair. LIKE A BOSS.

*Never stopped me before.

Time Management

We packed out last week. Husband and Boy were to take the dog to Colorado on Tuesday, and Girl and I were to follow with the cats on Wednesday. That didn't happen. OF COURSE.

I didn't have orders until early evening, Tuesday. OF COURSE. Too late to ship my car or confirm the ticket.

But more than that, Boy was in the hospital overnight on Tuesday. OF COURSE. Because that is how we do.

I could have sworn he had the flu, as he was the only one of us without the vaccine and had a crazy high fever (105.4 degrees, FTW). He didn't, but there is a virus circulating that mimics the flu in almost every way except there is no vaccine. At any rate, no more fever, but we do have a surly preschooler with a persistent cough. This might be warping into bronchitis, which means the next few weeks will be fun.

Husband and Girl and Dog left this morning and should be landing in Atlanta soon. Girl is healthy and was so excited to travel that she had an outright fit before bedtime last night. Somehow she was convinced that we were supposed to go to America right. then. and that Husband would leave without her. She was crying and kicking, screaming I wanna go Amurica! because it's just cuter that way. I finally persuaded her that the pilot wouldn't let her on if she didn't sleep. I then persuaded her that I couldn't stay in bed with her because I had to clean the kitchen. Total lie, of course. I had to split a bottle of wine with Husband and eat some cheese.

Boy and I leave tomorrow. In the meantime, he is asleep, as he has been for most of the day, and I am cleaning out all the glurge and leftover stuff from our house blogging.

I'd feel sad and liberated, stepping onto a whole new (temporary) trajectory toward stay-at-home-parenting, unencumbered by responsibilities at work. I still haven't finished my EER, though, so mostly I feel irritated and sad. Liberated will have to wait, if it ever comes.

Don't Know Nothin' 'Bout Nothin'

I grew up in Virginia--southern Virginia. Taaahdwahter. Well, that's partially true. I spent ages 8 to 18 there, but those are some pretty formative years.

I always attended Catholic school. Always. The habit was hard to break, so even grad school was a former Catholic college.

The nuns hated, absolutely hated, when we said "ain't." Which we did. A lot. It was a struggle to get me in shoes and to actually shower regularly.* My neighborhood friends and I spent our afternoons playing in the ditch that ran behind our cul-de-sac, catching tadpoles, minnows and snails, and not paying nearly enough attention to the location of water moccasins and--of slightly less concern--muskrats. Of course I said "ain't." My dad's dad, who lived in Chicago and wore a suit to church and on a plane and would never say "ain't," regularly accused me of being a downright hillbilly when I ran around the house barefoot.

I was always barefoot.

I started wearing paddock boots when I finally got to spend all my free time with horses.

This did not improve the condition of my feet.

I stopped riding horses when I went to college and I had to pay tuition and Georgetown rents instead of show fees my folks had to pay tuition and Georgetown rents instead of show fees, but I went back to being barefoot as much as possible, often while sitting in a tree. I lacked a certain gravitas. Still do, most days.

After college, I kicked my way to a black belt to alleviate stress, lose weight, and feel bad-ass. This did not improve the condition of my feet either.

Today Girl catches sight of my feet and points, exclaiming in horror, "Boo boo!" This tickles husband to no end, although that quickly ends when I punish him by putting my foot on him. Oh, the squeals! Delightful!

This was going somewhere.

Oh yes. Virginia to ain't to hillbilly to barefoot to horses to college to Tae Kwon Do to parenthood to Don't know nothin' 'bout nothin'. The nuns wouldn't have liked that one either, but it surely seems to apply as we navigate the purchase of our very first (as of yet unidentified) house. I would get into the specifics that confuse me, but I don't understand them so I can't.

In the meantime, I pop up to take a deep breath and realize the colossal reality shift we are about to experience. Husband will be back in a War Zone and I won't have to wear shoes. It seems so unfair for him and both so delightful and terrifying for me. Do I really have to do this all on my own? No housekeeper this time? Does he really have to Skype his kids every night? With a bigger time difference? Can we really just take a road trip to see our friends in Tucson? I mean: Can we really just find a pet sitter and then take a road trip to see our friends in Tucson?

Am I ruining Girl? Will she resent this some day? She reportedly stood at the door of her daycare this evening, waving goodbye to each child, declaring Homseni! ("Until tomorrow!") She loves school and is quite good at it.

On the other hand, she was the first child in and the last child out. That can't be good either.

I can't even begin to list the questions I have about Boy. I really hope I don't mess this up.

Oh, the opportunity costs. That's how I'll sum up all of this. Every single bit.

Oh, the opportunity costs.

*Pre-puberty. Figured it out in middle school. Unlearned it in parenthood.

Title Goes Here

Before I get down to business, I am happy share Girl's new (and only) joke:

G: Knock knock.

Me: Who's there?

G: Diapers! [pronounced dia-puhs]

Me: Diapers who?

G: [belly laughs] Knock knock!

(and so it goes...)

Last year I dutifully came up with twelve resolutions for 2012. That was ambitious and ultimately completely unsuccessful. This follows the trend of the past couple decades of resolutions, so yea for consistency!

I can't come up with 13 resolutions this year. We have too many question marks. A million, per yesterday's accounting. 

The good folks at MED and the good folks at the renowned Kennedy Krieger Institute in Baltimore managed to get Boy in for over a week of evaluations and therapy sessions. It's no small feat to get appointments at KKI in just a month and a half. We found out we were traveling only three days before we were wheels-up and we ended up extending our stay once we arrived.

It was excellent and I wish I could have stayed. The behavioral psych therapy sessions were a huge insight into his behavior and how to manage it, and I wish I had one a week or one a month to look forward to, so I could bring our frustrations and confusion to the therapist and have her guidance in developing solutions. We only scratched the surface.

What was clear is that it's going to take incredible consistency from all caregivers to see actual improvements. As promised, it's gotten worse before it's gotten better. In fact, we're still waiting for better.

What was also clear is that he is smart. We always knew that, but man. That kid smoked his development/IQ test. The developmental pediatrician said it's going to be critical to challenge him and for.the.love.of.God don't hold him back from kindergarten a year.

He turns five in August.

So there's a lot. I've only been in the office for 4.5 days since December 6th. I am so far from figuring out how to do right by Boy, do right by Girl, and do right by the Foreign Service that I'm running in circles trying to get started.

My only resolution for 2013 is to figure out what it is my kids need and to give it to them. Stay tuned.

An Accounting of 2012

The personal ledger:

Three trips to America.

One breast cancer scare.

One surgery (see above).

One non-surgical trip under general (Boy's tube removal).

Somehow only one trip to another foreign country (unheard of, really--2011 saw 5 in four short months).

Two hospitalizations (one for Boy and one for Girl).

Two teacher conferences. 

Five sessions with a behavioral therapist.

About a million question marks.

Twelve resolutions. Let's see how I did, shall we?

1. Sleep at least one night a week. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

2. Have a tough conversation or twenty. Ugh. Still hate to disappoint people and internalize every conflict. Yea for me!

3. Learn to garden. Um, no.

4. And then I will can it. Canning equipment still unopened.

5. Spend more date nights humoring my husband. What date nights? I have watched more of his movies when we hang out at home, I think. He will probably disagree.

6. Make academic goals for Boy. Yes, but turns out book-learning ain't the problem. Except in the way that it is. More on that later.

7. The dreaded baby books. HAHAHAHAHAHA.

8. Spend more time moving, and less time sitting. Well, I ran three races, including a half marathon. I was a no show for two others. Somehow I have ended the year a few pounds heavier than when I started, but I largely blame earlier snow and ice and a very festive series of holiday/birthday celebrations.

9. Make a financial plan and stick to it. Mostly.

10. Read more from our bookshelf. Well, not really, BUT I did read more on Kindle and I've indulged in more previously-unread classics (also via Kindle). Bookshelf still untouched.

11. Be a better emailer. HAHAHAHAHA.

12. Celebrate milestones on time. Hmmm. No.

So that's what, a 2.5 out of 12?

I'll post renewed optimism tomorrow. For tonight, Husband and I have already opened a bottle of bubbly, as we know we won't make it to midnight. Last year we were hanging with Digger and the Mrs. This year it's just the four of us. 

Head vana aasta lõppu, as the Estonians say! We'll cover the uut aasta tomorrow. Until then, I hope you are ending your 2012 wiser, healthier, and happier than when it started and even if you aren't, there's a fresh start tomorrow. Drink a lot, don't drive, have fun, and see you in 2013.

When I Grow Up

Boy wants to be a bat when he grows up. He and Husband had an exchange that went something like the following:

Boy: What do you want to be when you grow up?

Husband (who legitimately has no idea what he wants to be when he grows up): A pilot so I can fly.

Boy: I want to be a bat so I can fly.

Well. Can't argue with that. Actually I suppose we could and maybe even should, but neither of us wants to be the one to tell him that he can't shift into a different species.

He made me whip up a bat costume, which consisted of one poorly cut piece of black suit lining, a t-shirt, and precisely three safety pins. He had me tell him a story of a boy turning into a bat, which thanks to my lack of literary skills was essentially Kafka, because why re-invent the wheel? At least Boy's Metamorphosis had a significantly happier ending.

When he woke up at O-dark-thirty* 5:30 the other morning, as he's known to do, I heard his trademark elephant stomping down his stairwell and then...nothing. Not the elephant stomping up our stairwell. Not a loud fake cry to announce his presence. Not a loud real cry to announce his presence. A good mom would wake up and check it out, but I was tired.

Eventually Girl woke up and did her trademark morning routine of sticking her face in mine and yelling various parts of speech that are best understood as commands: "Hungry! Thirsty! Milk! Up! Playroom! Dora! Mommy up!"As I carried her out of our room, I saw a little Boy shaped lump sitting quietly on a dark stair.

"What are you doing, Boy? Want to watch cartoons?"**

"I'm not Boy. I'm a bat. I'm hanging upside down on the ceiling now."

I wish we all were so committed to our dreams.

*It's November in Estonia. This phrase no longer effectively captures the time, as it is as applicable to 8:30 as it is to 5:30.

**Don't judge me. My kids wake up early. 

A DIY Halloween

Last year was our first DIY Halloween. This year I wanted to keep up the trend. I think homemade costumes are fun, if not well-made, and it's one of those ways I try to atone for my other failings as a mother.

Speaking of Halloween, mothers, and failings: bear with me while I follow a little diversion. My mom went back to work full-time when I was six or seven. Until then, I could count on costumes and all those other things she had time to think about. Then Halloween 1988 rolled around. I was seven. I waited eagerly for my mom to come home from work, as she had promised she'd have my witch costume finished in time for trick-or-treating. I waited. And waited. And waited. (Keep in mind I remember this as a seven year old would, so maybe it wasn't such a dramatically long delay.) She did come home, but with nary a moment to spare before we had to get out the door. She took the black rectangle of fabric that she was supposed to have sewn into a tunic, folded it in half, cut a hole on the crease, popped it over my head, tied it with a rope, and called me a witch. At least I had a decent hat. I was absolutely distraught, and I carried that disappointment in me until this past year. Then I started making my kids' costumes after a full-day's work (or, more accurately, in the wee hours before a full-day's work) and I want to tell seven-year-old me to suck it up. There are real problems in the world, and selvage on your witch's costume is not one of them.

This also brings to mind the Halloween we brought the pony into the house and got in trouble.

Or the Halloween when I wrapped Ace bandages around myself and declared myself a Civil War veteran and no one got it. Not a one. I'm lucky I got any candy that year.

Or the year I was 13, and my hometown had made trick-or-treating and other joy illegal for kids over 12, so my mom said I couldn't go. I threw an honest-to-God tantrum in our kitchen that would rival my preschooler's worst outbursts. I won. Oh Mom, I was so close to giving up. You should have just hung in there. I was a total snit and didn't deserve even the crappiest of the candy I got that evening.

Or my senior year of college, when I was Punky Brewster (all the kids in elementary school told me I looked like her). One roommate dressed as a waiter at our college bar and the other dressed as a domino. Only she wasn't so much a domino as much as she was wearing tight black pants and black tube top--which she always wore when going out--and then taped two white dots to her torso. Which fell off. She's probably yelling at the computer as she reads this. Sorry, C, you weren't a domino. You were yourself on a night out.

I have lots of Halloween memories, you may have discerned. Some good, some not so good. Despite the fears of the crazies, it's not a night of evil. It's a night of good silly fun. I hope my kids enjoy it as much as I used to.

SO: back to 2012.

Boy said he wanted to be a spider. Actually, he initially said a rancor, but settled on a spider. Girl can barely talk, so I picked for her: DJ Lance Rock from Yo Gabba Gabba.

So, a blurry spider: black tights, black t-shirt, black dance slippers, black knit gloves. I stuffed two of my black knee socks and a cut up pair of Girl's black tights with rolled felt to make the extra legs. I found an old brown hoodie with print on the front and cut off the hood, the arms, and the pockets and turned it inside out. I hand-stitched (sloppily) one pair of legs into the pockets. I hand-stitched (sloppily) the second pair into the arm holes, leaving plenty of room for his actual arms. I added doubled thread to the bottom leg on each side, stitched the line to the second leg, and then hand-stitched it (sloppily) on the wrist of the knit gloves so that he could move all his legs. This was a very easy costume.

DJ Lance: orange pants, orange shirt, orange knit hat, white dance slippers. Used painting tape to mark the lines on her pants and shirt, and fabric paint to paint white stripes down the side of her legs and the orange and yellow stripes on her shirt. Hand-stitched (sloppily) a yellow star on top of a white starburst on her hat. Totally cheated on the belt: safety-pinned a piece of 3/4" elastic into a belt. Glued silver sequins to spell rock on a piece of white card stock and paper-clipped it to her belt. Voila.

Hope everyone else had a happy Halloween. I look forward to seeing what the kids pick out next year and maybe, just maybe, I'll slap something together the night before, instead of the morning of.

Lagging

Girl and I returned home from a whirlwind trip to Washington, packed with a leadership course for me, quality family time for both of us, a little bit of spoiling for her, and a wedding for a dear friend. For anyone I didn't manage to see, I'm sorry. I did my best.

It's 1:00 a.m. and we are on our third episode of Dora. Doooora, as Girl says. It's a unique form of torture. Jet lag this direction is particularly hard because work dictates that I must rise before, say, 11 a.m. Waaaay before. While I'm so sleep deprived that I almost don't experience jet lag, Girl does not share that immunity, so here we are. Sleep deprivation + endless Dora episodes = Sad Mommy.

Girl is also alternating between drinking water and spilling it. If I try to take it, she yells, "Mine!" When she spills it, she yells, "Spill! Wet! Derrrryyyy!" I try to take it, she yells, "Mine!" I think you get the picture. It's a fun night.

As for leadership training: as I'm sure all you Foreign Service types out there are dying to know, I'm an ESTP. I was an ENTJ in A-100, but I think this assessment was more accurate. Essentially, I'm an outgoing space cadet who works well with firm deadlines and horribly with theoretical ones. This is not news, but I walked away with a few pointers for staff, boss, and coworkers on how to manage me. First on this list: if you want it done, give me a due date. Second: I think out loud, so don't think I'm wedded to every idea I throw out there. If it sounds looney and half-baked, that's because it is. It's okay if we skip that one. Third: I thrive under pressure, but if you call me to ask for an update on something that's not due for another week, I'll panic. Just trust that I'll get it done. Most importantly: if I'm sitting on something that you need, for the love of Sweet Baby Jesus just tell me. I juggle a lot of tasks at once, and if you need me to focus on one thing so I can hand it over to you, don't be shy.

Because I'm me, I also spent a fair amount of time sitting in class feeling sad about my weaknesses. I don't know why. In fact, I think I'm quite forgiving of others. I pride myself on acknowledging their strengths and putting their flaws in perspective, but I can't do that about my own merits and faults.

Believe it or not, that isn't the thing I'm going to focus on first. My immediate goal is to stick to my own deadlines and/or set deadlines that are more realistic given the nature of my day-to-day. I think I can I think I can.

Well, this has been riveting. Blogging about Myers-Briggs! What a treat for my readers! Doooora #4 just started and Girl is no longer wearing a shirt, having drenched her second one of the night completely. I think that is my cue to read Tom and Lorenzo and anticipate the brutal fatigue that is set to overwhelm me in approximately five short hours. Working Motherhood strikes again.

Living Americana

Whoops. Did I manage to go nearly a month without writing anything? Completely unintentional.

Since my last post the following things have happened:

• a gecko has been acquired
• one fish has died
• two more have replaced it
• one of those two died
• I saw Lady Gaga
• a puppy has been acquired
• and other non-animal-related and non-Gaga-related things as well.

Oh yeah, and I ran-ish a half marathon. There was a slow moving virus that kept me out of work far too long (the kids' virus, not mine) and the arrival of our new Ambassador.

Wait, did I write a puppy has been acquired? I most certainly did! Let the fuzzy iPhone pictures attest:

This is not a puppy. This is Girl, who has the makings of a crazy bag lady.

This is a puppy.

This is a cold puppy. It was September 1, after all. Can't expect a small puppy to stay warm all on her own in September.

We can add "puppy" to the list of things these two bond over. Also on the list: Legos and poop jokes.

The cats aren't too sure about this development. Tupelo, the fat orange one, takes a swipe at her once a day for good measure. Klezmer, the fat black one, has never hurt a living thing in his life, so mostly hisses and then runs away, which Dali (the not fat puppy) finds to be great fun.

Nope, not scary at all.

More than one reasonable person has expressed utter horror at the idea that we added to our daily burden so dramatically. Two jobs, two kids, two cats, a dog, a gecko, and a fluctuating number of fish, all in a foreign country? Crazypants. 

Yes, it is crazypants. Everything about us is crazypants. Only crazy people drop life as they know it to take a weird government job with the very real possibility of sending you to Bujumbura. Only crazy people decide to drunkenly adopt a cat when they are just kinda dating and then, very sober, follow up on that decision the next day. Only crazy people get engaged after five months. Only crazy people have a child a little over a year into their marriage. Only crazy people do an unaccompanied tour with one person in a war zone and the other in the developing world. Only crazy people add another child to that mix while trying to learn one of the world's hardest languages.* And only crazy people insert a gecko and a puppy into the chaos in less than a month. 

The gecko, it turns out, is not a lot of work.

Husband and I crave a night of good sleep and some free time, but not so much that we will actually pursue it. All joking aside: the dog is something we'd have in the U.S. It's a simple as that. We've been married for over five years, and in this career for 7 (him) and almost 7 (me). Our kids know their grandparents over Skype and Boy thinks he's Estonian. Seriously: try telling him he's American. He does not agree. There are moments--an increasing number of them--when we are desperate for some normalcy. While a few acres in Colorado with a smallish gaggle of livestock (oh! the menagerie we would have!) is out of our geographic reach at the moment and would require a major lifestyle overhaul, a dog is doable. Come PCS time we'll be out a bunch of money and effort, but that's one move a couple years away. What's one more pet to ship?

So forgive me, dear reader, for not writing. A young pup, unlike the gecko, is a whole lot of work.

*Edited to add: oh, and tattoos. We can't forget tattoos. 

The Years are Short

Yesterday was my birthday. In two weeks, we'll have been in Estonia for one year. A day after that, Boy will turn 4.

Four, my God. Four.

There is a common quip about parenting young children: The days are long but the years are short. As I round the bend to completing seven years in this career, I'd posit that that's equally true of the Foreign Service.

There are some days with small kids that seem they'll never end: diapers, tantrums, Dora, playing hide n' seek again, cooking, cleaning, more diapers, administering more time outs than is actually productive, reading a story for one-millionth time. Despite the fact that I average only two full days like that a week, I often catch myself eagerly awaiting bedtime, ready to move from the monotony of play to the not-at-all-monotonous state of watching TV on the couch.

Boy has a new babysitter after school, and on their first day together I hovered a bit after bringing him home, waiting for tantrums or to soothe his new-person nerves. Needn't have bothered. He sent me back to work with nary a wave. While he still has his baby moments, with every day he grows closer to the teenager who won't want me to pick him up from school, to the grown man I'll hope I hear from once a week. Where has this time gone? Why was I ever wishing it away?

I'm sure my parents were thinking something similar yesterday. My God, I get it now. Don't grow up too fast. You have your whole life to be an adult.

When people ask about serving in India, I now have the perspective to explain it in a similar way: it went fast, and was an amazing experience. Each day dragged and I couldn't wait to get out of there. I imagine even the toughest posting goes by in a flash, at least in hindsight. I thought my sweaty Mumbai days, trapped in an apartment with a difficult toddler, would never end. Here we are: 31 and almost-4, with a year in our new home under our belt.

When I consider each previous assignment and place--even pre-Foreign Service--I imagine it a box. It's packed, sealed, done. New York, Israel, Korea, India. Just like Boy's toddlerhood or Girl's infancy. It's over; the crucial memories are packed up and safe, but the details--the stuff that composed a lazy Saturday in Seoul or each day with a 15-month old--they're gone.

I'm terrible with time. I keep thinking I have more of it, and inevitably I blink a few times and understand that a day, a week, a year has passed when I had said I'd get to it in a moment, an hour, the next afternoon. I call it my adult ADD, but the truth is it's just a lack of self-discipline and a stubborn refusal to acknowledge that this moment is all I know for certain that I have.

It's a rare sunny day in Tallinn, and I'm home with Girl, who is recovering from a mild cold. When she wakes up from her nap, I think I'll ditch the usual routine of helping her build a tower while I compulsively check my phone, and take her on a bike ride. After all, tomorrow it might be raining, and soon she too will have left her toddlerhood behind.

Report Cards

I'm having one of those weeks (er...two months, really) at work. We can file certain consular work under "N" for "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished." It is very demotivating.

So! Let's focus on the darling children instead. Nanny returned back to the U.S. on Sunday. Well, more accurately she left for the U.S. on Sunday. Because the airline industry is the airline industry, the fact that I paid more for her ticket so that she could be home in two connections and 16 hours mattered little to the The Fates. She left here at 2:00 p.m. on Sunday and finally touched down in Kansas City at about 1:00 a.m. local time on Tuesday night (read: 9:00 a.m. Estonia time on Wednesday). That is one hell of a trip, and my understanding is the fine folks at LOT decided to scream at her instead of apologizing profusely for such egregious cancellations, re-routings, and baggage-losing.

Anyway. Nanny is gone. Girl started Estonian daycare last week, and Husband took this week off to rearrange the house. Girl finally has her own room, Boy moved up to Nanny's room (his own bathroom and everything), and we surrendered and turned the living room into a giant playroom. Seven-year-old me would be so jealous.

Girl is certainly a more relaxed person than Boy, but she hasn't been in daycare since she was a newborn and doesn't yet speak Estonian, so I was nervous. No need. Her report card thus far:

• Joyful smile
• Very well-behaved
• Eats well
• Dances during music class
• Naps like a pro
• Hates to wash her hands or her butt (no wipes, I guess?)
• Will not walk to the park using the rope; insists on being carried or holding hands

Unlike Estonian children, Girl has not been potty-trained even though she is at the advanced age of almost 19 months. As for the walking, I haven't said anything about it, but she knows adults would normally freak if she walked into the street on her own. When she's intimidated, she wants to be held. I imagine walking down a sidewalk and crossing a street is a bit initimidating. To her school's credit, they aren't too worried about this and noted that she is, of course, the youngest one in the school. I don't want to be the parent who refuses to make the teachers' lives any easier, though, so at the very least we will practice spraying her little tush down with the bum shower (as the men of the house call the very European sprayer). The American in me shrugs at the hand washing and thinks, "She's small! Just make her do it. Ignore the screams," but from what I can tell the Estonians do put a premium on voluntary cooperation. I don't know that my kids are capable of such a thing, but I'll try.

Which brings me to Boy. At the risk of jinxing absolutely everything, we've gone most weeks with barely a negative remark from his teachers. He still gives us hell at times, but more often than not he's just ridiculous. His teacher mentioned the current challenge is his bug obsession. He collects all the bugs he can find on the playground, lays on his back, puts them on his chest, and let's them wiggle around on him. At home, he does such charming things as place two plastic bowling pins between his legs and declare, "My junk has engines!" (a la rocket engines). Someday he will HATE me for putting that on the internet, but I feel like that's his own fault for saying his junk has engines. Actually, at the time I placed the blame solely on Husband having taught him the word "junk" in such a context. 

Maybe it's the sun and the mild temperatures and all the outdoor time that comes with it, and maybe it's that he'll be four years old in just a few weeks, but perhaps we can hope against hope that he's turning a corner. Neither Husband nor I expects that Boy will suddenly be cooperative and have superior (or any) listening skills, but as long as the violence dissipates and the tantrums become fewer and farther between, he's headed in the right direction.

I'll take it.

Haapsalu Redux

Today was a beautiful blue 68 degrees. On a whim, we loaded up the family, medicated the hell out of allergic Husband, and drove to Haapsalu. It's been over nine months since we were there last. Oh my, the children have changed.

Fate Successfully Tempted

What was I saying just the other day? Something along the lines of another hospitalization would derail this crazy train we are on?

This is Boy, on Night One of his hospitalization:

His father is with him on Night Two. I have got to stop tempting fate.

I shall back up. As I've mentioned, I was in Stockholm for the last half of the previous week. Stockholm is really amazing and when our conference ended a bit early on Friday afternoon, I had at least seven hours of awake alone time left. Perfect time to acquire one of the many tattoos I am planning.

*Brakes screeching*

Yes, yes, this thirty year old married mother of two with a respectable job is working on tattoos. I am looking forward to nothing as little as I am looking forward to telling my father. But that's for later.

I emailed a few Stockholm shops, but they were booked. Luckily, one took walk-ins on Friday and had a solid reputation. Come back at 8. And so I did. 

Behold, my first tattoo, an elephant for my Girl:

Normally my t-shirt covers most of it, just leaving the face poking out, but I pulled it aside for you fine folks. I very deliberately faced it that way, so that I wouldn't end up risking just an elephant ass sticking out of my neckline. Easy to cover for work, quite small, very cute: I love it.

Despite Girl grabbing at it as soon as I arrived back in Tallinn on Saturday, I've managed to keep it very clean as it heals. I was anticipating wearing a suit on a work trip to Haapsalu on Tuesday, but picked out a soft cotton top that wouldn't irritate it. When Boy dumped an entire container of fish food in the tank and Husband and I set out on an emergency tank-cleaning mission, I carefully avoided splashing fish-poopy water on it. 

When Boy woke up that night crying and spiking a high fever, I stopped worrying about it.

His symptoms were such that we nursed him through the night and Husband took him into the Children's Hospital on Monday morning, where he was immediately admitted. I visited at lunch, but I had visa appointments in both the morning and afternoon, and thus was a bit tethered to the office. Nothing makes you feel like a horrible mother with misplaced priorities more than that type of situation. To be clear: if the doctors indicated that anything were a dire emergency, then I'd be the first to forget everything else and get to the hospital. But they didn't, so I was doing the best I could. I ditched everything when Girl was in the hospital, but I had backup then and, if I'm honest, a 14 month old needs her mother even more than a preschooler does at times.

I feel like a jerk even typing that sentence. You know what I mean. Husband was locking it down.

I switched with Husband yesterday evening so that I could spend the night with Boy. I stayed there today so Husband could go to work, and we are doing the reverse for tonight and tomorrow. I canceled my trip to Haapsalu, or rather foisted it on someone else. It had been long planned and kind people were going out of their way to welcome the U.S. Embassy. If my son hadn't been in the hospital, I would have been horribly disappointed to miss it. Alas, these crises never happen at a good time.

Today, as Boy regained much of his normal verve, I lolled about on the hospital bed, playing jets and lizards and whatever else he requested. At some point, it occurred to me that the worst place to have a fresh tattoo still in the healing process was a hospital, the land of MRSA. I suddenly became an insufferable Felix to Boy's fairly disgusting Oscar (a role reversal, as in all other circumstances he's the particular one). I'd squeal and wave my hands defensively if he sent a blanket my way. I washed my hands twice every time I ventured in the bathroom for whatever reason. My jacket hanging on the coat rack became suspect, as did the straps of the bags I had brought with me.  

My tattoo hasn't erupted with flesh-devouring anything. Yet. It's a good reminder to be cautious, though, and as Girl sleeps upstairs and Husband tries to convince Boy to settle in for another night of fitful sleep, tethered to an IV pole, I am shopping online for a few cheap long sleeve t-shirts, preparing a thin layer of protection for round 2.

Boy will come home tomorrow, with any luck. Never fear, if he weren't faring well this would have been a very different post.

On the Road Again

I type to you from lovely Stockholm. It is lovely, truly, although frighteningly expensive. I shelled out $23 for pad see ew at a not-fancy Thai joint.

As I prepared for this short trip, I fantasized about uninterrupted nights of sleep and boarding a plane with only a carry-on. I hadn't flown without the kids since March 2010, and I've only spent one night away from them since Girl came along. Boy is so into his father right now that I figured he wouldn't care too much, but Girl still comes into our bed every night, without fail, and snuggles up to me as she falls back asleep. When I pass her to Nanny in the morning, she grips my side with her legs and screams.

Mama!

I feel like a monster leaving for work, and here I am, a time zone away.

To prepare for my trip, I made sure Husband knew all the things he was supposed to do. In case he wasn't too sure on the matter, I instructed him not drown or smother Girl in the bath/bed. Seriously. I instructed Husband not to kill our children. In return, I got a look that said layers upon layers of things, kind of like are you frickin' kidding me I wouldn't hurt our kids I'm such an involved dad how could you even think I wouldn't know not to kill them I can't believe you think so little of me, and other incredulous thoughts as well. Point taken.

Twenty three dollars worth of Thai food later, I wish I were home, covered in small children fighting for my attention and creating chaos around me. Hopefully Husband will enjoy chubby little hands trying to shove him out of the bed at five tomorrow morning, because I think I might actually miss it.